I, The Immortal
by PrettyPoppy
Summary: The Immortal ruminates on his less-than-perfect relationship with Buffy. POV fic. Spoilers for Angel’s “The Girl in Question” Pro-Spuffy - Complete


Title: I, The Immortal

Author: PrettyPoppy

Summary: The Immortal ruminates on his less-than-perfect relationship with Buffy. POV fic. Spoilers for Angel's "The Girl in Question" Rated G

Author's notes: Just another rationalization of Buffy's relationship with The Immortal. Completely and totally pro-Spuffy. Oh yeah, and my first POV fic.

Feedback: Yes, please. PrettyPoppy@worldnet.att.net

Distribution: I'd be honored if anyone wanted to archive it. Please, just let me know where it's going.

Disclaimer: Buffy, Spike, Angel and The Immortal all belong to Joss Whedon & Co. I've just borrowed them to help preserve my sanity. 

* * *

They say patience is a virtue, but when you have an eternity to live, patience is more like . . . a nuisance, perhaps? The price one pays for dallying in the dust-to-dust world of mortals? Patience, like any other "virtue," is a skill I can easily master . . . when it suits me. I can be infinitely patient - after all I have till the end of the world, and perhaps beyond. Time has no meaning for me, . . . except, maybe, when it comes to a little blonde girl, who is far too stubborn for her own good.

I can't say that I've ever been too fond of Americans. There's a reason I've chosen the grace and beauty of Italia as my home. The "States," as some Europeans are so fond of calling it, are far too crass for my tastes. Too violent, too unrefined. It leaves one to wonder how any creature with a soul could possibly flourish in such an environment. 

And yet, there is the girl in question. 

Her soul has flourished, if not hardened a bit, in the war zone that is California. She is a beauty, of course, but, perhaps too pensive, too easily swayed to dark moods, for her own good. A Slayer by calling and by nature, she makes a fiercely beautiful prize to be won. But she won't be won. Not yet. I can walk the streets at night - I can walk them during the day - and I can have any female I wish, crumbling at my feet in supplication, begging me to glance her way. And yet this little American, this petite figure with the flashing hazel eyes and indomitable spirit, she keeps me at bay. She keeps me waiting.

And if there is one thing The Immortal does like, it is to wait.

She has let me in, into her life, into her home - but just far enough. A friend, a confident, a companion, I am; a lover, I am not. She will only ever let me in so far. I may sit beside her all night, holding her while she sleeps, feeling her snuggle up close to me while she dreams of him. And nothing else.

Him. 

One would think, of course, that if any past amour would have buried himself so deeply in her affections it would be Angelus, the one most recently known as Angel. An insect beneath my feet. A demon of no consequence, save for the infantile squeaking he makes whenever I crush him underfoot. He was her first love, and so, it would be understandable if some misguided part of her woman's heart, still held true to him. But he is not the one who upsets my ambitions and keeps me from claiming what I choose as mine. It is the other.

William the Bloody; toady to a demon of no consequence, most recently known as Angel. He is the one who's name she whispers in her sleep, as I hold her against me on the sofa, my frustration becoming an annoyance to me. I, The Immortal, do not get frustrated. Until now, I had assumed it was beyond my nature. But, it is not so. Annoyed I am, yes, but also slightly thankful. After all, this is the first time in several hundred years that I have fallen prey to any new emotion, and so, I can forgive the girl and the vampire this. 

Even so, I wonder how long my patience will hold.

The first time I saw her, was across a crowed piazza, in the broad light of day. I knew who she was. I know everything. 

She was as lovely as I had expected, long honey-blonde hair falling across her shoulders, a look of deep concentration contorting her pretty face. She was alone, sitting at a table, a silly paperback novel in her hand, a half-finished latte a few inches away. She looked lost and in pain, as if her life depended on losing herself in the pages of a mindless piece of romantic fluff. She had looked very much like a girl trying to fool herself into believing that everything was right with the world.

Now, it is widely known, of course, that I have a particular gift where people are concerned. Female, male, it matters not. An odd century or so spent in a Tibetan monastery can certainly do that to a man, give him that gift. It did not take me long to approach the girl, and to gain her trust. 

Please, do not think that I sought her out because she was Angelus' woman. You mistake me. It was because she was a legend - much like myself. A Slayer among Slayers. The girl who had saved the world, yet again. Little did I know, how heavy that last victory was weighing on her shoulders.

William the Bloody - the young upstart now known as Spike, a vampire with less value than an insect beneath my feet - he perished in her last battle, and now she mourns him. 

I have known for more time than I can count - because, as I have said, time has little meaning to me - that he is in fact alive. That the creature she weeps for is not stranded beneath the rubble of a ruined city, but is in fact, living quite comfortably in the hell that is Los Angeles. I have pondered the prudence of keeping this knowledge a secret, wondering if it would help my cause to tell her what I know to be the truth. But I think, it would not. She is a magnificent woman, with an agile mind and great practical sense, but with a heart so stubborn and wild, I am moved to tame her at times. If she were to discover the fate of this half-demon called Spike, she would run, without thought, to his side, leaving me behind. 

And if there is a second thing The Immortal does not like, it is being left behind. 

In the many centuries I have endured on this earth, I have never been cast aside by anyone. Until now, it has not even been a fathomable consequence. But today, she has the power to make it happen.

And so I wait, and I woo, and I master patience as if it were my lover. As if it were the girl herself. And I accomplish naught.

At first, when I entered her life, she did not know me for who I was. Thinking that I was just another sophisticated, wealthy, handsome European gentleman, set out to capture her heart. She made pleasant conversation with me, but her smiles never reached her eyes, her laughter never touched her soul. In an attempt, perhaps, to thwart my advances, she finally confided in me about her suffering, her "lost love" - my insides turn just a bit at the term, it reeks of puerile melodrama.

Once I discovered who this lost love was, my path cleared, my road became easier to travel. For I knew William the Bloody. I had known him long before their ill-fated paths had ever crossed. And it became my opportunity - nay, my duty - to comfort her in her hour of need, to share my memories of the loathsome creature that had so captured her fancy.

And so, I found my way in - at least, a little ways further. Nocuous conversations about this "Spike," that roiled my internal organs and made me feel just a little bit ill. But I have progressed. I comfort her, coo to her, tell her what it is I know she wants to hear, all the while, moving closer to her myself.

And still nothing.

We cuddle and we talk, and sometimes she allows me the honor of taking her out in public to engage in the liveliness that is the world outside of her apartment. But that is all. Even if I spend all the hours of the night with her, I am only ever invited as far as her living room sofa. 

And so I wait, until the day she says "yes." Until, my infinite grace and patience can bare no more. For what mere human would ever dare deny The Immortal? 

END

  
  
  



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